Sherlock Sketches
by JustplainChristina
Summary: These are just some one-shots about random scenes from the daily lives of Sherlock and John at 221B Baker Street, featuring mostly those two with appearances from Molly, Lestrade, and maybe others in the future. My sketches currently range from about 500-2,000 words and are entirely intended to be light-hearted fun.
1. Arachnophobia

**Hello, everyone! Nice to meet you all. I've had these ideas floating around in my head for a while now, and I finally decided to write them down. This is a series of brief one-shots (or as I prefer to call them, sketches) about random scenes from the lives of Sherlock and John that caught my fancy. My sketches so far range from about 500-2,000 words, and I really don't know how many I may end up writing because it's just so much fun! (I had no idea how fun writing fanfiction is.) I have tried to remain in character, but as this is my first attempt at proper fanfiction, I don't know if I succeeded. Anyway, I present to you _Sherlock Sketches_, and I hope you have a fabulous day! :)**

**Arachnophobia**

**OR**

**The Time John Made an Unpleasant Discovery**

* * *

_Woman last seen three days ago near the Thames, having dinner at the Riverfront Grill with her boyfriend. Arrived at 6:30. Sent several text messages of irrelevant information to older sister and tweeted a picture of her gourmet shrimp platter. Left at 8:07. Nothing heard from her after nine o'clock. Management confirms that both consumed average amounts of liquor. No previous reports of any problems between them, and older sister states that couple intended to marry. However, strange bruising on the body suggests that the boyfriend may have—_

"Holy— SHERLOOOCK!"

Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin as John's sudden shriek shattered his thought process. _What the…._ He blinked rapidly at the ceiling, trying to clear the cobwebs and resurface to reality. John had claimed he was cooking dinner that night and had been in the kitchen clanging pots and pans around for over an hour. It did not smell like dinner, but Sherlock had told himself that anything was better than Chinese food for the fourth night in a row and tuned John's ruckus out. _I bet he spilled something. No, probably burned himself. Not my problem right now._ _Woman last seen three days ago with boyfriend…_

"Sherlock!" John cried from the kitchen again. It occurred to Sherlock that his flatmate sounded frightened.

"What?" he called back without stirring from the couch, slightly annoyed that he had been interrupted on the brink of solving his new case. _No previous problems reported between them…_

"Come here!" John's voice was definitely laced with fear, Sherlock decided, which was rather odd.

"Why?" _Strange bruising on the body…_

"Just come here."

"I'm busy." Sherlock closed his eyes, wondering what had possessed John but determined to drag it out of him before getting up. _Boyfriend must have been…_

Several moments of their silent stand-off passed until John broke down and pleaded, "Will you _please_ just come in here?" John's unusually fearful tone finally intrigued Sherlock enough to motivate him to roll off the sofa. He crossed the living room and poked his head into the kitchen to find John kneeling on the floor, staring into one of the cupboards.

"I thought you were burning dinner."

John ignored Sherlock's quip about the steam drifting from the pot on the stove and remained frozen with his eyes fixed on something inside the cupboard. Sherlock studied him curiously, noting the terror etched on his face, and then knelt beside him to peer into the darkness under the sink. John promptly jumped up and backed away. "Just kill it, will you?"

Sherlock immediately spotted what had distressed his flatmate. "Tegenaria domestica," he murmured, observing the eight-legged creature lurking in the back corner of the cupboard.

"What?" John watched in dismay as Sherlock's eyes lit up with fascination.

"Tegenaria domestica," Sherlock repeated. "Domestic house spider. Non-aggressive. They weave funnels into their webs in order to—"

"I don't care what you call it! Just kill it!"

"I wonder how long it's been here," Sherlock mused without making any move to reach for the fly-swatter. "The web is intricate and quite large. When was the last time we cleaned the cupboards?"

"They're all going to be _thoroughly_ cleaned every week from now on," John vowed, "as soon as you get rid of that thing."

"Had a nasty encounter with a spider before, I imagine. When you were a child."

John breathed deeply, fighting the memories, and resisted the urge to swear at his friend. "If you must know, yes. My sister wanted to play hide-and-seek, so I hid in the cupboard."

"And something crawled onto your hand."

John felt the tickling sensation and quickly scrubbed his hand against his pants to chase it away along with the memory that often haunted his childhood nightmares. He knew Sherlock was watching him and refused to look back at the detective.

"All right, John," Sherlock abruptly smiled. "I'll put it outside." He retrieved a beaker and glass rod from the table and reached into the cupboard. A few seconds later, he emerged holding the beaker, the spider safely secured inside. John averted his eyes as Sherlock held the beaker up and briefly inspected it. "Interesting," he finally said as he headed out the door.

John took a few moments to compose himself and then turned around to attend to the acrid odor permeating the air. It was emanating from the stove, he realized, when the smoke detector went off.


	2. Boo

**Voilà sketch number 2! This actually stems from what my sister and I often experienced as children, and I couldn't resist the idea of playing it out in Baker Street.**

**Boo**

**OR**

**The Time Sherlock Screamed Like A Girl**

* * *

Sherlock made startling John an art form. No matter where he was or what he was doing, his curly-haired flatmate always managed to find a way to make him jump. Sherlock swore he didn't intentionally startle him, but John knew better. Sherlock clearly enjoyed sneaking up on him, despite his insistent claims to the contrary. His face always betrayed the faintest hint of the distinct smirk that he wore when he knew he had one-upped somebody.

That particular Friday, John decided to get even.

When he came downstairs for breakfast, he found the flat more messy than usual and discovered that Sherlock had already left. He realized that Sherlock had stayed up all night working on a case and then had run off when he cracked it at some unholy hour. _Perfect_, John smiled. There was a note on the counter which stated Sherlock would be home in time for dinner. That gave him all day to prepare.

John took his time with his breakfast of pancakes and eggs, plotting various ways to spook his perceptive friend. It would not be easy since Sherlock would notice anything out of place the moment he entered the flat, and the slightest sense that something was not right would make him suspicious. John contemplated many pranks but discarded all of them because they relied on some form of trickery that Sherlock was certain to detect. In the end, he elected to try the old-fashioned, leap-out-of-the-darkened-doorway-while-yelling maneuver. It had worked excellently for generations, and it might just work for him too.

He spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon combing over the flat, meticulously organizing the excessive chaos Sherlock had created while trying to solve his case. Sherlock would not suspect an immaculate flat because when John had nothing better to do, he sometimes cleaned up the flat to make space for new clutter. The level of tidiness reflected his level of boredom and, more often than not, his relationship status, although he disliked admitting to it. John scribbled a quick note that said he was going out with Stamford and positioned it on the desk. If all went according to the plan, Sherlock would arrive home and assume that John had gone out girlfriend hunting after straightening everything up.

Sherlock's note on the counter said his friend would be home for dinner, which meant that he would be back around six-thirty or seven o'clock and would be hungry after not eating since his case started yesterday. John mentally replayed Sherlock's common routine to determine a good place to conceal himself. Sherlock would stride through the door, maybe say "Anything in?" and head straight for the kitchen.

There were no decent places in the living room. John glanced at the refrigerator, wishing he could slather fake blood on his face and fit inside it, but removing and hiding the racks was too risky. He surveyed the kitchen and eventually settled on the pantry. He could easily fit in there, and he would hear when Sherlock stepped onto the kitchen tile.

All that was left to do now was to wait for his moment to strike.

At six o'clock, John stationed himself by the window to watch for Sherlock's arrival. At precisely 6:28 according to John's watch, a cab stopped at the curb, and Sherlock slid out. _Here we go_, John thought, his blood pressure rising as he bolted to the pantry and stepped in. He left the door slightly cracked open so that he could leap out the moment Sherlock came into the kitchen. By the time he noticed the door was ajar, it would be too late.

John's heart thumped with adrenaline in anticipation of what was coming. After all these months, he would finally get Sherlock. He heard the front door open and close and then the sound of Sherlock climbing the stairs. When the door to the flat opened, he stilled his breathing and tensed, every muscle ready to spring. Sherlock's feet padded leisurely across the carpet and then tapped onto the tile. His moment had finally arrived.

"RAAAAAAH!" John hollered, flinging himself from the pantry. After all his careful preparation and patience, he was rewarded with a yelp at least two octaves above his friend's usual voice range and the shattering of glass as Sherlock spun wildly and swept several of his instruments off the table.

"I got you!" John crowed and pumped his fist in the air, the delicious sensation of victory coursing through his veins. "I got you!"

Sherlock's pale face had drained of the little color it retained. "What the bloody—"

"I bloody got you!" John could not have wished for a better reaction; Sherlock had been completely blindsided by his puerile trap. He laughed uncontrollably. "Your face! You should have seen your face! I should have had a camera! Why didn't I bring my camera!" John leaned on the table and tried to get his breath back in between irrepressible fits of mirth.

Sherlock stared at his flatmate, struggling to sort his thoughts out and get a grasp of what had just happened. He had just come home to a quiet flat while smugly rehashing his successful case and was walking into the kitchen when his peace of mind had been torpedoed by John's sudden appearance.

John was standing upright again but still grinning triumphantly. His heart rate finally slowing down, Sherlock tried to speak and failed, and then the truth of the situation flashed through his mind. The flat had been _perfectly_ cleaned, too perfectly even for John being single. John had deliberately jumped out at him; it was a premeditated stunt. He raked his hands through his hair. "John…." He was at a loss, an honest loss for words, and John knew it.

"There's left-over lasagna in the fridge," John said, managing to put on a neutral expression, and sauntered into the sitting room.

Sherlock said nothing to John for the rest of the evening and remained stoically in his chair when John went upstairs to his room. John knew he was in for it now, but he didn't care. To see Sherlock, always so cool and collected, react like he had was worth any of the devious retaliation he was certain to dream up.


	3. Cookies

**Sketch #3! Allow me to introduce Miss Molly Hooper. :) This one is actually more melodramatic than I intended it to be, but I just sort of ran with it anyway. (It could also possibly be interpreted as Sherlolly, since that is my preferred pairing, but that was not my original intent.)**

* * *

Cookies

OR

The Time Molly Slapped Sherlock

Molly leaned close to the bathroom mirror, painstakingly applying make-up to her red-rimmed eyes. She didn't want Sherlock to know she had been crying, although it was likely that he would know anyway despite her best efforts to cover up the evidence. He had texted her earlier to say that he was coming to Bart's to look at the newest body she had processed.

Her co-worker Emma had tragically died last night at home. Her mother had found her body the next morning, and Molly had learned the news when she came in to work. She and Emma had not been best friends per se, but they had shared a special connection. Always ready with encouraging words, Emma listened and understood when Molly talked about Sherlock. She was the only person to whom Molly would confide her feelings, and her death was devastating.

Molly scrutinized her face from different angles, hoping she had done enough to fool Sherlock, and hurried back to the morgue.

He was waiting for her, and she smiled brightly in greeting. "You're on time today."

"I try to make it a habit." He gave her a quick once over, and she was certain his eyes narrowed slightly as he observed her.

_He knows. Of course he knows_, she thought in despair, but she forced her smile to remain plastered on her face. "Here she is then." Molly unzipped the body bag. "Her name was Emma. She was a receptionist."

Sherlock gave the body a cursory inspection. "Suicide."

"Accidental suicide," Molly corrected, a little too quickly. "She drank too much and then took cough medicine under the influence."

"Did you know her?" he asked softly.

Dragging her attention from her friend's body, Molly looked up to find Sherlock watching her. His tone lacked its typical briskness, and if she didn't know better, she could almost believe he looked… sad? Concerned? She was imagining things. "Yeah," she managed to get out, trying to swallow her tears. She could feel her fake smile slipping and pursed her lips to hide it. "Yeah, we talked sometimes. Had lunch every now and then. I liked her. She was nice."

"Do you know why she would take her own life?"

"No." Unable to bear his penetrative eyes, Molly looked away.

Sherlock glanced back at the body but didn't say anything more. In the suffocating silence, Molly felt a sudden blaze of anger. He was here investigating. Despite the toxicology report that clearly showed a lethal mix of alcohol and over-the-counter drugs that Emma had recently purchased, Sherlock evidently thought there was more to the story.

"Do you have a different theory than what the report said?" she asked sharply.

Sherlock tilted his head, keeping his focus on Emma's cold face, and quietly replied, "It just seems odd that she would do this. She had a good job and a lot of friends, according to what some of the nurses were saying. She was intelligent and had a future. She had no reason to end her life."

His matter-of-fact summary burned through her grieving heart, and Molly couldn't help her reaction. To hear him condense her late friend's life and tragic death so brusquely infuriated her. Blinded by her wild emotions, she reached up and slapped Sherlock as hard as she could. His jaw dropped open in shock as he reached up to touch his stinging left cheek. Molly zipped up the bag, shot him a frosty look, and stalked from the room. When she was safely sequestered in her office, she laid her head on her desk and cried.

* * *

Molly slogged through the slush toward Bart's, her face and soul numb. Once inside, she tugged off her scarf and gloves and basked in the warmth of the lobby. The morgue would be frigid as usual, but for now she could spare a few minutes to raise her body temperature.

When she felt sufficiently warm, she began her trek to her office. She normally utilized the elevator, but she just hadn't felt like using it after Emma's death and had opted for the stairs for the past two weeks. The chill in the stairwell was good preparation for the cold emptiness that reigned in the morgue.

Sherlock had not returned since she had struck him. At first she was glad not to have to deal with his abrasive bluntness, but after a few days she began to miss his unpredictable presence. He often appeared at all hours of the day or night when she was working, and he was a welcome distraction, in spite of his frustrating quirks.

The memory of his dazed expression plagued her. She didn't know what had driven her to strike him and regretted it immensely. Despite the raging feelings that had consumed her, how could she have slapped the only man she truly cared about? She longed to go to Baker Street and apologize, but her dread over facing him again paralyzed her in this miserable limbo.

She would have been better off if she had never met Sherlock Holmes. Molly groaned to herself and plodded up the stairs, overcome by the sensations of heartache and loneliness. As she reached the door to exit the stairwell, however, a strange smell stimulated her senses. She stepped into the hallway and sniffed again. It was faint but definitely there.

_Maybe I'm finally going crazy. _Hardly caring, she shrugged and headed down the hallway, but she swiftly discovered that the smell intensified as she neared her office. _It can't be… but it has to be._ She stopped in front of her door and breathed deeply, unable to deny any longer what the tantalizing odor was. She swung the door open and peeked inside.

A plate stacked with chocolate chip cookies was sitting on her desk. She set her bag on the floor and picked one up. It was toasty, fresh from the oven. She bit into the cookie, savoring the rich flavor as the slightly melted chocolate marginally raised her low spirits. _Who would do this?_ she wondered, although she already had a few suspects. Several of her colleagues enjoyed baking and sometimes surprised everyone with homemade treats.

She sat down and selected another cookie. Sliding the plate to the side so she could start on some paperwork, she uncovered a brief note written in familiar script, and her blood pressure spiked.

_Molly,_

_I'm sorry for your loss and for the pain I caused you._

_SH_

Her heart throbbed as she devoured the note, digesting what it signified. As she reread it several times, the memory of their altercation flashed through her mind, and Molly realized exactly how incorrectly she had interpreted the scene. Suffering from her raw grief, she had misunderstood why Sherlock had come. Now she could clearly discern what she had originally refused to accept: the concern on his face and the soft tone he had used to inquire about her friend. He had been trying to console her in his own way, and she had thoroughly misjudged him.

Molly rested her head in her hands, feeling as if a heavy burden had just been lifted off her. He had done what she could not and had broken the ice between them; she could face him again. She would go apologize immediately and profusely after work today. _Unless…_ Her eyes widened._ Wait. Could it?_ The entirety of the situation dawned on her. The cookies were extremely fresh, too fresh to have come all the way from Baker Street. Heart pounding again, she raced out of her office and ran for the kitchen.

The sound of running water hit her ears as she rounded the corner. She shoved through the doors and came face-to-face with Sherlock. He looked at her cautiously.

"I'm sorry!" she blurted out straight away. "I didn't realize… I don't know, I don't know why I did that, and I'm so sorry." She took a quick breath and finished with a rush, "And thank you for the cookies. They're delicious." She smiled hesitantly and was flooded with relief when Sherlock smiled back.

"The dishes are done," he said and turned off the faucet. "I have a blood sample that I need to analyze."

"Right this way then."


	4. Relapse

**And Sketch #4! This is the last of the melodrama, I promise; I just couldn't flesh out this scene without some tension. I would also like to say that I am no expert when it comes to this subject. I did a bit of research so that I wasn't just making random stuff up, but I do not intend in any way to misrepresent or make light of this topic, which I think is very serious.  
**

**Relapse**

**OR**

**The Time Sherlock Got More Than He Bargained For**

* * *

Sherlock sat obstinately in a chair in the corner, curtly dismissing all attempts at conversation. The only reason he had come was to keep an eye on John. When John had informed him that his old friend Mike Stamford had invited both of them to a bachelor party he was hosting, Sherlock had agreed to go without hesitation, much to John's surprise. John had a penchant for drinking at parties, and Sherlock intended to make sure he didn't overdo it because Lestrade had told him earlier that there was a brewing case that could blow wide open at any moment. That call could not come soon enough for him, and he wanted John to be clear-headed enough to come with him.

"Why're you sittin' over here?" slurred a voice to his left, interrupting Sherlock's brooding.

He glanced up but refused to acknowledge the obviously intoxicated young man.

"'Ave a cocktail," he said, bracing himself on the wall.

"No, thank you. You've already had enough for both of us. I prefer to be left alone."

"Aw, nobody oughta be alone at a party! C'mon, have a drink." He leaned over unsteadily and sloshed his martini on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock glared directly at him this time, a tirade on the tip of his tongue, but the look in the young man's eyes stopped him. His eyes were vacant but not solely from an alcohol-induced stupor. There was something else. His scruples promptly abandoned, Sherlock studied his new subject curiously.

"Whatcha lookin' at?" the young man asked defensively after a minute.

"You've been having a good time tonight, I see," Sherlock countered, fishing for what he had been up to.

"You bet I have! Them guys upstairs got it goin' on." He laughed loudly, and then Sherlock could smell on his breath the sweet scent of what else he had been doing during the past few hours. Sherlock leaped up immediately and strode from the room, ignoring various other greetings; this evening was finally about to become interesting.

Because the party was being held on the first floor, the lights were turned out upstairs which suited him. He slipped quietly up the stairs and eased down the hallway. The door at the end of the hall was slightly open, revealing a dimly lit room, and he could hear the faint hum of murmuring voices. He briefly considered calling Lestrade, but the idea of a single-handed, dramatic drugs bust was too tantalizing after the hours of boredom he had endured.

As he neared the room, a shape stumbled out of the doorway and managed to grab onto the railing to prevent falling over entirely.

"Been having a good time?" Sherlock asked smoothly.

The man's head lolled toward him, and he squinted into the darkness, attempting to focus on Sherlock. "Who wants to know?"

"An interested party."

"They got plenty o' party in there, lemme tell you," the drunk garbled, rubbing the inside of his elbow tenderly as he staggered away.

His simple movement struck Sherlock like a stick of dynamite as the truth materialized and paralyzed him. He had seen clearly the spot of blood indicating a needle puncture, and his heart began to pound in his chest. Forgotten sensations surged from deep within him and inundated his senses with tactile memories. He touched the crook of his arm and felt the prick of a needle followed by comforting drowsiness. His nostrils burned with the fire of cocaine. His head felt light, and he reminded himself to breathe. Leaning against the wall, he closed his eyes and fought for lucidity as intense cravings began to rage through his veins.

He knew he should go no further. He had promised profusely to never take drugs again after the last incident with the Woman, but his sanity was swiftly succumbing to the potent memories. The darkened doorway that had earlier offered an escape from boredom now appeared as a bottomless pit into which he was sliding, helpless to stop. He tried to call for John, but his voice was no longer functioning.

Unbidden, his feet propelled him toward the chasm which promised to swallow him in its shadowy embrace. His body shuddering with the strength of his desperate desire, Sherlock released his slim hold on his remaining shreds of reality and stepped through the doorway.

The fragrance of marijuana hung heavy in the air, and he inhaled deeply as time seemed to slow down. Through the smoky haze, he distinguished a small group sitting in the back corner and weaved toward them, his dry mouth thirsting for the euphoria that lifted him to the heavens.

All four heads turned to look at him as he approached, and he held out his shaking hand. "I need some."

The girl picked up a needle from the floor and tossed it to him with a sly wink. "You're just in time, love. We were about to shoot up the rest of it." She started giggling, and the others were swept off in another round of laughter.

Sherlock pressed the needle point into his arm but hesitated one moment longer, his reason screaming futilely at him to stop. It wasn't too late to walk away, to just throw the germ-infested syringe back at her and leave. That's what he should do; he should just leave, but he couldn't. He just could not walk away, and he hated his own weakness.

He breathed in and pushed the plunger as far as it would go. Within minutes, he marveled at why he had waited so long to come upstairs and join the real party. The others were still laughing at some bygone joke, and he joined them, unable to contain his soaring spirits. Surveying the room, he deduced everyone and reveled in their ignorance. He could rule the world if he wanted, and they would have no idea what had happened. He would manipulate them like marionettes.

Maybe he was destined to become king. If he could just get rid of Moriarty, no one would be able to stand in his way... _Moriarty. _The name abruptly soured his mood, and Sherlock glowered absentmindedly into the darkness, consumed by fantasies about hunting down his nemesis and parading him through the streets in chains.

As he brooded, an erratic, uncomfortable thumping slowly pierced his clouded thoughts. He glanced down, wondering what was causing him pain, when he realized that he was having difficulty breathing. The world twisted, jumbling everything together into hallucinogenic chaos. Panic blazed through him, and he inhaled frantically, sucking air in desperate gasps as his chest burned. His drugged mind was aware just enough to know that he was in trouble.

Spots invaded his vision as he lurched for the door, and he stretched out his hands to brace them against the wall as everything tilted. _No, not the wall. _His equilibrium was off-balance, and the throbbing in his wrists indicated that they had broken his fall. There were lights shining down to his left; at least he had stayed on his feet long enough to get back out in the hallway. _John! _He called for his unsuspecting friend as a terrifying blackness descended, praying that his voice was producing the words. The shadows were caging him, and he writhed within their cold confines. He tried to recoil from the monsters besieging him, but unable to flee, he succumbed to the darkness.

* * *

_Sherlock. Sherlock! Can you hear me?_

He could hear a disembodied voice calling his name, begging him to come back, but there was no way back that he could see in the total void.

_Answer me, Sherlock, come on!_

He wanted to answer, but the crushing darkness was suffocating him. He felt suspended in time, lost in an inky limbo. _Am I dead? _There was no proof to the contrary, other than the remote voice in his head.

_I know you're still there. Hang on, just hang on._

A pinprick of light suddenly flared up in the distant shadows, and he strained toward it, a flicker of hope warming his murky prison.

_Come on, Sherlock. You can make it, come on! Don't leave me here alone._

He reached for the light and the voice, fighting against the ghosts that threatened to drag him back beneath their deadly shrouds. He would not, could not, go back, or he knew he would never find his way out of this fatal labyrinth.

He was close now; he could feel it. The stark illumination beckoned and comforted him as the remaining darkness fell away, and with a gasp he opened his eyes to a white room. The brightness hurt his eyes, but he didn't care as he devoured his surroundings. White ceiling, white walls, white machines, something attached to his face, a needle in his arm. He realized he was lying on a bed in a hospital room, and his relief at feeling his heart beating steadily was palpable.

"Sherlock! Oh, thank God."

He knew that voice and turned his head to the right to find John perched on the edge of his chair, his face as white as the room. "Hello," Sherlock croaked. It occurred to him that he was parched.

John leaned forward, his white face reddening. "'_Hello_'? That's it? That's all you have to say?"

Sherlock's head was still foggy, and he just blinked at John.

"Do you have _any_ idea what I've been through the last eight hours?"

In spite of his fuzzy thoughts, Sherlock tried to piece together an acceptable answer, but John plunged ahead before he could open his mouth. "_Hell_, Sherlock. That's what. I've sat here, watching that monitor," he jabbed a finger at the monitor on the other side of the bed, his voice rising, "just waiting for it to flat-line. You _can't_ keep doing this. Can I get that through your thick skull?"

"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled, feeling exhausted and ashamed.

John sighed and sagged back in his chair, his anger yielding to weariness. "For the love of God, Sherlock, _please_ don't ever do that again."

"I won't," he murmured, and this time he meant it. He never wanted to experience that frightening abyss again.

Silence hung heavy between them for a while, both content to reflect on their harrowing escape. Sherlock closed his eyes and simply breathed, grateful to be alive, but his desire to know what had transpired during the night slowly increased. "How did I end up here?" he finally ventured.

"Do you remember anything?"

"I remember falling and that I couldn't breathe. I tried to call you."

"You succeeded. I heard you calling me, so I came to see what you wanted, and I found you on the floor upstairs going into cardiac arrest. I called an ambulance immediately, and they managed to keep you alive during the ride here."

"I thought I was going to die," Sherlock admitted.

"I thought you were too."

Silence reigned again until it was broken by a doctor entering the room. A large smile spread across his kind face as he saw his patient awake. "Well! I'm glad to see you pulled through, lad." He checked the equipment and Sherlock's vital signs and then clapped John on the shoulder. "I had to tell your friend here a few hours ago that we had done everything we could to stabilize you. He hasn't left your side since you got here."

"Well, that's what friends do," John muttered, looking at the floor.

"The paramedics told me he actually saved your life," the doctor added cheerfully as he left the room. "We wouldn't have been able to do anything if he hadn't intervened immediately on the scene."

"It would seem I owe _you_ my life," Sherlock mused after the door swung shut, his curiosity aroused.

"It was nothing," John answered quickly and avoided Sherlock's questioning look. His clear discomfort hinted strongly that something else had definitely happened, and Sherlock would not be dissuaded from finding out.

"Really, it was nothing?"

"Yes."

"Doesn't sound like it."

"Leave it, Sherlock." John's face tinted red again, this time with mortification.

"John," Sherlock said neutrally, "you have a simple choice. Either you can tell me what really happened, or I'll ask the doctor. He seemed quite willing to volunteer information."

"Can't you just forget about it?"

Sherlock reached out to push the button to call the nurse, but John intercepted him. "Okay! All right." He rubbed his face and groaned. "But this stays strictly between you and me, understood? When I found you upstairs, you were going into cardiac arrest, like I said. So I had to resuscitate you in front of _everybody_ because they all followed me when I ran out of the room."

The implications of what that meant were not lost on Sherlock, and he smirked.

"It's not funny, Sherlock. I'll probably have nightmares," John grumbled, but because of the lingering effects of the drugs, the scenario struck Sherlock as absurdly hilarious. He started to laugh, which promptly provoked a coughing fit. "Water, John, I need water," he finally rasped.

"I think I like it better when you can't talk," John retorted but got up anyway. "Just so you know," he snipped over his shoulder, "I sacrificed any chance I had with all the women at that party, some of whom were really quite lovely, I might add, to save your sorry backside. You owe me."

"The bartender fancied you," Sherlock nonchalantly called after him.

John ground his teeth and slammed the door behind him.


	5. Consulting Baby-sitter

**On the day we finally receive an air date for Sherlock Series 3 in the US, I present to you my final Sketch (at least for now). I really would like to write more of these, but between my work and class schedules, at this point I just don't have the time unfortunately. Donc, au revoir for now, but I hope to see you again in the future! =]**

**Consulting Baby-sitter**

**OR**

**The Time Sherlock Encountered A Toddler At A Crime Scene**

* * *

Sherlock slowly circled the small courtyard, registering every detail about the surrounding apartments and the body slumped against the wall. The police report said murder, even though Sherlock insisted that it was quite obvious that this particular incident was suicide. After the events involving his last serial killer, it seemed like every time he took a case now everybody immediately started imagining he was going to unravel elaborate murder plots and dark conspiracies.

"You're sure it's suicide?" Lestrade asked for at least the fifth time.

"Yes," Sherlock replied again, mustering his most patient tone. "Look at the position of the body relative to the apartments. No one could have shot her through her temple from any of the windows. She came outside, stood in that corner, and pulled the trigger herself. You found the gun on the ground next to her."

"Well, someone could have planted it there," Lestrade said doubtfully, but Sherlock could see that the Detective Inspector believed him. It was the other, less experienced officers that were being dramatic.

"You'll find her fingerprints on the gun."

"I'm sure we will. Should get the call any minute now."

"And her financial affairs?"

"Pretty bad so far."

Sherlock waited until the call came that confirmed what he had known all along. The woman's fingerprints were indeed found on the gun, and she had been in deep trouble financially.

"So she didn't see any way out and just couldn't cope," Lestrade concluded.

"Yes," Sherlock affirmed, "text me if there's anything else." He knew there wouldn't be anything else but felt obliged to extend the offer anyway.

"Well, actually, there is another—" Lestrade started to say when Sherlock felt something tug on the bottom of his coat. He glanced down, and a small, frightened face looked up at him.

"What's this?" Sherlock asked, although he had already perceived the answer. One look told him that the tanned skin and brown hair matched the genetics of the dead woman. "Her child?"

"Yeah," Lestrade nodded. "I spotted him earlier inside when I heard him crying for his mother. He's been trying to hide from us, so we've just kept an eye on him and left him alone. Poor fellow's been through a lot."

Sherlock peered down at the boy, guessing he was about two years old. His eyes were red from crying, and Sherlock felt an odd rush of compassion for him. He was clearly too young to understand what was going on and was terrified of all the commotion and strangers.

On a whim, Sherlock eased down to his knees. The boy took a step back but didn't let go of his coat. Suddenly unsure of what to say, he opted for a gentle, "Hello. I won't hurt you." The toddler stared at him, his eyes watering again, and didn't speak. Sherlock scanned through his memories, searching for what people normally say to children. "What's your name?" When he received no response, he decided to try something different and held out his hands. He had seen John do this before, and children seemed to like it when John picked them up. For a moment the little boy continued to look at him apprehensively, but just when Sherlock was ready to give up and move on, he released his hold on the coat and held up his tiny hands in return. Sherlock swept him off the ground, and he laid his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "That's better, isn't it?"

Lestrade shook his head, surprised but pleased. "I never thought I'd see the day."

"What?" Sherlock arched his brow at the DI.

"I think he _actually_ likes you," he answered with mock astonishment.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to leave.

"Hey, you can't just take him," Lestrade cut him off. "He presumably has relatives that will claim him." He reached out to take the boy, but the child shrank from him and clung to Sherlock's collar.

"Well, they're not here, are they?"

"Maybe they haven't heard about what happened yet!"

"It was all over the news this morning."

"That doesn't mean they were paying attention; you're the one who said people never observe anything important. We're looking for them."

"I'll bring him to the station later," Sherlock promised.

"Sherlock, I can't just let you—"

"He can't stay here."

"I'll have one of the female officers baby-sit him." Lestrade reached out again for the child, and this time the toddler began to whimper.

"You're upsetting him," Sherlock declared, dismissively turning his back to the DI.

Lestrade opened his mouth to protest, realized that arguing would be futile, and threw up his hands in surrender. "I can't believe I'm doing this, but will you promise to bring him to the station today?"

"I promise."

"You have to bring him by _tonight_, Sherlock and possibly earlier if we locate a relative."

"I will!"

Lestrade eyed him dubiously but only said, "Don't feed him too much sugar."

* * *

John trudged up the stairs, lugging his grocery bags. He had long since given up trying to convince Sherlock to help him and learned to manage by himself. When he reached the top, he saw that the door wasn't closed entirely. He swung it open with his shoulder and was greeted by two pairs of eyes.

Dumbfounded, John gawked at the little boy sitting on Sherlock's lap. "Sherlock…"

"What?" his friend asked as if there were nothing unusual happening.

John simply shook his head and walked to the kitchen to put away the groceries, too bewildered to form any questions. _Just when I thought nothing could ever surprise me..._

"His name is Theo," Sherlock offered to preempt John's intended interrogation when he returned and sat down.

"Theo?"

"Theophilus to be precise, but since that's too long to say all the time I shortened it."

"That's his real name?"

"I wouldn't doubt it. In any case, he's of Grecian descent so I figured it would suit him." Sherlock poked Theo who giggled and started babbling. Among the gibberish, John recognized several Greek words.

"Dare I ask how he got here?"

"I found him at the crime scene I visited today. His mother committed suicide early this morning."

"That's horrible." John gazed with pity at the young child who obviously had no idea that his life had just been tragically altered.

"Lestrade wanted to keep him at the station until they were able to contact one of his relatives, of which there are most likely many, but Theo was clearly afraid of him and his cronies so I brought him home. I'll take him down later."

John watched in amazement as Theo laughed and wriggled when Sherlock started tickling him._ Amazing._ He was witnessing a side of his flatmate that he had never dreamed even existed, and he couldn't help but enjoy the touching scene. _Never suspected I'd use the word "touching" in reference to Sherlock Holmes_, he thought with a smile. "So what have you been doing with him all day?" he queried.

"Nothing really. Just talking to him." Sherlock stood him on his feet, and Theo bounced up and down.

"He doesn't speak English."

"He knows a few words."

"Like what?"

"Daddy!" Theo squealed happily, trying to grab Sherlock's hair.

John almost choked on his tea. "You did not teach him to say that."

Sherlock delivered his most innocent expression and lowered his head so that Theo could reach his dark curls. John laughed, partly in wonder and partly in mirth. "I can't believe you did that."

"I bought some blocks earlier," Sherlock changed the subject, cracking an impish smile, and relocated to the floor.

They played with their new friend for the rest of the afternoon until Theo fell asleep on the couch, and then John saw a shadow of resignation cross Sherlock's face as his mood visibly deflated. "We should probably take him down now. Lestrade just texted me."

"Probably," John agreed, although the glaring disappointment in Sherlock's voice made him wish the child could stay longer.

Sherlock watched Theo sleep for a few more minutes and then carefully lifted him up with a sigh. "Let's go, then."

They hailed a cab and headed down to the police station. One of Theo's relatives was waiting for them there, and she eagerly reached out to take him. John suffered a flash of panic when Sherlock hesitated to hand the toddler over, but after stroking his small cheek he placed Theo in his aunt's arms and made a quick exit.

Sherlock said nothing during the ride home, and John didn't disturb him until they were seated in the flat sinking their teeth into sub sandwiches.

"You never asked what his proper name is."

Sherlock kept his eyes focused on his half-eaten dinner. "I didn't want to know."

His simple reply was brimming with unspoken words and emotion; John heard everything that his friend chose not to articulate. Theo had melted Sherlock's formidable façade in a manner John had never seen before, and Sherlock would remember him that way. He would file his impromptu play-date deep within his memories, perhaps to pull it out again to brighten some rainy day.

"He was very cute," John ventured after another lengthy silence.

"Yes, he was."

"And he really connected with you."

"You think so?"

"Definitely."

Sherlock smiled and took another bite of his sandwich.


End file.
